Brass neck

Given that the magnificent seven were on patrol seconds before we were surprised to hear the very worrying sound coming from the copse at the side of our lane.

Now for those new to this site the magnificent seven are a pack of dogs who enjoy the life of luxury here at Rock HQ. Here they have everything to meet their needs, from stagnant ditches to sit in to a choice selection of pooh to eat or roll in. Poppy the not so golden retriever pictured above having rolled in the very freshest fox pooh had been in the cauldron at the end of the lane, the two Bernese Mountain Dogs sat and watched as Tracey and I, illuminated by lights with enough power to pick out enemy bomber formations in the night sky, cleaned out the horses latest offerings before providing them with their dinners, Faith the Gordon setter ran at 100mph from one end of the farm to check if all was in order to the other to check to see if anything had changed since she had last been there some 30 seconds before while the two ancient Beagles grubbed around trying to find anything to eat that the other animals had overlooked. Pip the mental collie cross chased her tail, cats, shadows, the wheel barrow and Faith. All in all it was a normal night time routine taking place at Rock HQ.

With all this mayhem and activity taking place you might have thought that the most reviled animal of the smallholding would have kept well away. But no, within two seconds of the lights being turned off and the dogs running through the front door a female fox called her mate from the copse not fifty metres from where I was standing.

Five shots from the gun and all went quiet. We knew we hadn't hit it, they were blanks, but Mrs Fox doesn't know that, at least I don't think she does.

More Pocket Rocket Mayhem

Anyway all was calm in the garden tonight so the magnificent seven were lounging around and I was doing important stuff like standing around and looking at stuff. This was not, and I must make this quite clear an attempt to stay out of the way of Tracey and Bethan. I had not, and I stress this point, I had not overheard a conversation that involved the words "sping clean." Nor had I seen a bottle of window cleaner and cloths placed on the windowsill for my use. My activities in the garden were not linked to any avoidance of housework.

No.

Partly I was making sure the dogs didnt get up to any mischief in the garden, listening to the birds and planning a menu for the weekend when we have friends over for dinner, but mostly I was pottering around and therefore unable to clean the windows of the conservatory, my household task for the evening.

The Berner's we sitting on guard as only Berner's can, ready to run and hide at the first sign of danger. Pip was gnawing on her dog chew (sheep skull), Faith was bothering the chicks in the A frame, Poppy was diligently guarding the feed bin making sure no marauding goat took liberties, the fact the bin was empty had no bearing on the matter, Preston and Passion were beagling about in the brambles at the top of the garden. All was well in the canine world.

Until Trevor made his presence felt.

He is a true Shitland.

But we adore him.

Pip the Psycho

We were gardening this evening, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, well most of them were. There is one particularly annoying male Chaffinch that I swear follows me around and just goes Peep Peep Peep all the time, never changing tempo, never altering pitch, always the same Peep Peep Peep Peep like a birdsong version of Chinese water torture, the sound burning into my brain as I attend to my chores, slowly driving me mental, but I digress, and all was good in our world, apart from the aforementioned Chaffinch serenade.

With the garden fenced off and the poultry shut away during the daytime the garden is starting to look like someone actually cares for it. Four of the eleven raised beds now contain plants we want to keep rather than weeds. In between the plants like peas, cauliflowers and sprouts we have planted sweetcorn, the plan being that the smaller plants bulk out and cover the lower parts of the beds and the sweetcorn grows through and upwards thus giving us two crops from the same space. We also have courgettes planted out, onions are in beds and pumpkins. I hate pumpkin but we planted them and they have grown huge so hopefully we will get some big pumpkins in the autumn. God knows what we will do with them. The greenhouses have now been cleared out a bit giving the tomatoes room, the grape is going a bit mad so needs cutting back before it takes over and puts everything in the shade and the fig has grown back despite amateur and vicious pruning by yours truly.

Anyway while we were potting on some cucumbers above the earsplitting Chaffinch crescendo Tracey and I heard another unusual sound. A crunching, bone breaking type sound.

Now Pip our psychotic collie, who looks like a miniature German Shepherd was sat under the fruit trees on the bank playing with a new toy.

Now she seldom sits still for more than two seconds so we don't have many good pictures of her so she hasn't been featured on these pages very often. Pictures we do have are usually blurred as she moves at the crucial moment, or we have a brilliant sharp picture of her tail as she runs off camera. So as she was sat still rather than annoying someone or one of her kennel mates I took the opportunity to get some video of her. She is as you can see engrossed with her new plaything.

What, I wondered, is captivating this mad mongrel?

What is keeping her so occupied that she has forgotten her primary role in life is to bother every other living thing?

What is so interesting she had to carry it off the common, bring it into our garden and sit in the shade of a tree and crunch up with such gusto?

It is a sheep skull.

She has worse habits.

Secrets of Animal Husbandry

There are things in the world of smallholding that you find yourself doing or accepting that had someone explained to you before you took on the farm you might have questioned or dare I say baulked at the idea.

For example your tolerance for dirt increases, whats the point of clean trousers when you are likely to be kneeling in one of nine forms of excrement that morning as you attend to one of your beasts or birds. You accept extremes of temperature and weather, bravely trudging along the lane carrying vital supplies to starving animals in blizzards, hurricanes, hail storms, torrential rain, biting northerly winds and very occasionally hot sunny days.

You get used to being tired, having a full time job and then working full time on the farm does take it out of you and it is a battle now and then to get out of your warm armchair in front of the wooodburner, leaving your nice cup of hot chocolate, beautiful wife and loyal Bernese Mountain Dog who seconds before you moved was lying at your feet looking adoringly into your eyes promising to defend you to the death should the need arise and who is now cowering under the kitchen table as you don your sou'wester and cheerily give the "Come on Rocky" the signal that he should join you on your epic trek to round up the geese for the night who will invariably scatter when your torchlight appears and be all over the place like a mad woman's shit rather than snuggled up in the goose house safe from predators and the elements, you get used to that sinking feeling as you stand by the door looking at the dog looking at you giving the "Are you mental, I've seen the weather mate I'm staying in here where its warm" signals, and you know full well that you are about to go out alone.

There are lots of things you get used to, and there are lots of things about animal husbandry you are never told.

For example, if you knew that goats climbed like monkeys you might reconsider having one, or two as we do. If you knew they eat everything other than what they are supposed to eat you would probably invest heavily in electrified fencing, the type capable of keeping King Kong away from your precious garden and fruit bushes and trees.

Any new animal at the Rock means a steep learning curve for the human residents, the type of learning curve NASA uses to launch rockets.

So no one told me, no one ever mentioned what I found myself doing whilst standing in the evening sunshine at Rock HQ. Had they done so I, without fear of contradiction, would have told them to "Sod that for a game of soldiers" or perhaps similar sentiment expressed in fewer words, mostly of four letters and undoubtedly one at least beginning with the letter f.

I was involved in a task that still makes me shudder at the thought and my brain now contains images that are most unpleasant. The worst thing is we have to do this again, several times a year for the rest of our lives, or for as long as we have a male horse.

We have to clean Williams penis.

With a special lotion purchased form the equine equivalent of Ann Summers, the instructions for use are enough to put you off your dinner, yet alone the process. Apparently the horses thingy gets covered in dirt and when it withdraws back into the sheath it drags this dirt inside which over time converts into a black tar like substance called Smegma, the name alone is conveys terror, this Smegma hardens and can crack (OH please God no more) creating razor sharp edges which cut the poor horses widgey (How have they survived this long!) and create an infection which in extreme cases makes your pony very poorly and need the vet.

Not wanting to be the owner of Mattel's diseased dick my little pony we had to take action. Warning signs were there that there might be a problem as Williams sheath had fly bites on it so perhaps his todger wasn't smelling so good. Smell is another aspect of smallholding you get very used to, there are some ripe smells around animals, particularly goats when they backfire.

So armed with buckets of warm water, sponges and pony love potion we fetched William to be cleansed. He stood quietly, gently munching his hay from the net while Tracey and I considered how to go about this task. With one of us on either side of William we bent down and inspected his John Thomas, it was, as mine would be if this was going to happen, hiding. It had to be coaxed out. I knew I would never be the same after this evening.

The guidance on the potion said an ideal time to lasso his willy to clean it was when he had a wee. Anyone witnessing a horse taking a leak and the gallons they produce would know that this is not the time to be anywhere near without total waterproof protection. Ben tells a story of the horse at Sandhurst, Warrior, who on the Commandants parade in a a very high wind took a leak which instantly vapourised and the pissy mist landed on the wives and daughters of the senior officers who were all dressed in their best.

There had to be a different way to coax it out. Tracy gave it a quick rub, I really didn't know where to look or what to feel as I was dragged into what seemed like an equine threesome. As I watched her trying to provoke a reaction from the flacid horse I suffered a curious mixture of feelings, revulsion, envy, bordering on jealousy. My wife's hand action prompted no response so with the words "Cover me, I'm going in" or similar Tracey put her hand, suitably oiled, inside Williams foreskin.

The next few seconds passed in a blur. William definitely reacted, his eyes bulged, he almost choked on the hay and quite possibly the wax shot out of his ears as well.

Tracey triumphantly waved under my nose a lump of evil smelling black stuff clutched in her lubricated digits. She dropped it on the floor and I looked away as she reached in for a second handful. William was to my mind showing to many signs he was enjoying this and was definately giving me leery looks. Not wanting to ruin the moment for them both I looked out across the Radnor hills and found somewhere safe in the sunset to park my shattered mind.

Animal husbandry couldn't get any worse than this.

As usual I was wrong.

Pip the collie was sat watching the show. She is a strange dog with severe attachment disorder and behavioural problems.

She ran over and sat under William.

She ate the Smegma.

Find somewhere safe.